


Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

by Thestarlitrose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fic is set during two different periods of time, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thestarlitrose/pseuds/Thestarlitrose
Summary: A night of reflection as Aziraphale notices Crowley dancing with various suitors during a ball.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

It was unexpected to see her here, it had been such a very long time. Nearly thirty years, a blink of the eye for them but how she’d missed the demon.

Crowley was a vision, thought Aziraphale as she gazed across the room towards a familiar shade of auburn hair.

Beautiful.

Hair tumbling down her back in curls reminiscent of when they’d first met. She wore a dark evening gown and a coy grin as she flirted with some of the men standing around the dancefloor.

Fomenting she’d once called it.

Crowley was the belle of the ball and had turned the head of every man in the room. She’d yet to notice Aziraphale, sitting in the corner to herself, likely too busy from the attention. Jealousy burned her, a terrible ache between her ribs that spread up and through her heart, down her arms, and into her throat; constricting her jaw and tongue. An ache the settled into her, unwilling to budge.

_Hope is the thing with feathers_ , recited the angel as Crowley was dipped in the arms of some Lord.

Aziraphale clenched her teeth and glanced away, fingers dug into the silken folds of her gown.

For a demon, Crowley had always shown brighter than any angel she’d ever met. She was summer and she was cold.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley was led around the room in the arms of one man after another. Laughing and smiling, blinding and radiant. Each step of her dance felt as if she had drifted further and further out of reach.

The burning in her throat reaches a crescendo, her vision blurs.

She won’t cry, she will not allow it.

Crowley is not hers, nor has she ever been.

They are friends. Best friends, confidants, adversaries, and opposites.

But not lovers.

No sweet morning kisses, no lingering touches or throes of passion.

No, never lovers.

But oh, how she wants and wishes. She longs for her, aches to her core for the very demon she’s meant to thwart, destroy.

Aziraphale couldn’t bear it any longer, with a quick scan of the room to assure she will not be missed, she escaped to her rooms, unable to bear witness to Crowley being romanced.

It was too cruel, haunting. Mocking.

She slipped up the stairs and into her rooms.

A quick miracle loosens her gown and corsets enough to remove them on her own before she slipped her chemise over her head. The fabric soft, a comfort to ease her suffering. She then tied a long white robe around her, trimmed in gold thread; a reminder of who she is- sometimes she wishes she were human, not an angel bound to her duties.

Her curls fell around her face, free from the elaborate style she’d been talked into earlier.

Aziraphale walked to the window and opened it, frigid air rushed into the small bedroom she’d been given for her stay. She closed her eyes to the moon as its pale light washed over her. It seeped into her pale flesh, the energy thrummed beneath her skin. Her tears slid coolly down her face, three, then four racing down her neck, where they pooled between her breasts.

Then, she breathed. Deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She pushed the feelings away, steadies herself.

She is one of God’s favored warriors, strong and capable.

An Angel of the Almighty.

A demon should not hold her heart.

Shouldn’t cause her to cry, cause her to feel as if she’s being burned and frozen at the same time.

But she did.

Aziraphale shook her head as she wrapped her robe tighter around her before turning to walk back inside.

He isn’t sure why he thinks of it, perhaps it’s the curls sprawled across his chest or the way Crowley’s fingers were holding his bicep as if he’d somehow escape or disappear if he lets go.

He wonders if perhaps he’d made himself known would things have been different?

It had burned him for many years after, images ingrained in his memory that refused to leave.

The knowledge he’d never be permitted to the things offered freely to strangers.

His arms tighten around the sleeping demon who mumbles a sleepy reply.

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

_Hope is the thing with feathers_ , he smiles to himself before he drifted off to sleep with Crowley pressed tightly, safely in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the thing. I am not good with poetry and I tend to take things as I see them. This could have a thousand different meanings to it but for me it speaks of unrequited love. Anyway, the poem Aziraphale keeps referring to is this one but Emily Dickinson. 
> 
> “Hope” is the thing with feathers- BY EMILY DICKINSON
> 
> “Hope” is the thing with feathers -  
> That perches in the soul -  
> And sings the tune without the words -  
> And never stops - at all -
> 
> And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -  
> And sore must be the storm -  
> That could abash the little Bird  
> That kept so many warm -
> 
> I’ve heard it in the chillest land -  
> And on the strangest Sea -  
> Yet - never - in Extremity,  
> It asked a crumb - of me.


End file.
